Angry Spirits Don't Care About Mud
by Meliphyre
Summary: This was written as a prompt by the wonderful center-galaxy in the oh sam Live Journal community PROMPT: Gen, please! First line: "Maybe Sam should've listened to his brother before he decided to play the hero and run back into that house." Any season, any characters you want!


_PROMPT: Gen, please! First line: "Maybe Sam should've listened to his brother before he decided to play the hero and run back into that house." Any season, any characters you want!_

Demons Don't' Care About Mud

"Maybe Sam should've listened to his brother before he decided to play the hero and run back into that house!" His voice grew louder with each word that became more and more directed to the figure in the passenger seat than to the phone at his ear. The response was a middle finger thrust into the air. Dean rolled his eyes and returned his attention to the phone. "Yeah Bobby, he'll live. I'll get him patched up, dried up, warmed up, the whole deal." He listened to Bobby grouse about his boys taking years off of his life and promised to keep the older hunter up to date before hanging up. He glanced at Sam who was leaning against the passenger door. Dean rolled his eyes again and cranked up the Zep.

Dean spent the drive sliding his eyes to Sam to make sure he was in fact as OK as he had told Bobby he was. Simultaneously he grumbled about Sam's inability to listen to reason and not to back into a house with spirit that was hell bent, literally apparently, on destroying everything. He could have waited until Dean burned Old Man Sanders' hat. But no, "just had to save the dog right then and there." He didn't know he had actually said it aloud until he heard the rustle of movement beside him and caught Sam's spectacular glare. Dean smirked. "Yeah serves you right, Sammy."

The rain had not relented when he pulled the Impala into a spot in front of their motel room. Dean got out and walked around to the passenger side where Sam was working on opening the door. He looked miserable, Dean thought and helped Sam out of the car. His skin was pale, eyes rimmed in red, and his hair was plastered to his head by a combination of mud, rain, and blood.

The room was blessedly warm. Dean helped Sam out of his wet and muddy clothes before stripping out of his own and pulling on sweat pants. "Let's see the damage," Dean said as he pushed Sam toward the bathroom and sat him on the edge of the tub. In the harsh fluorescent light he could now see the myriad of bruises and gashes. "Old man did a number on you," he said, not at all joking. The left shoulder had a nasty jagged gash that would require stitches. The gash above his eyebrow would be fine with steri strips. "How do feel? No dizziness? Nausea?"

"I'm fine, Dean," Sam replied. His chattering teeth betrayed him.

"Of course you are," Dean muttered as he grabbed hand towels and wash rags off of the rack. He drowned them in warm water and handed one to Sam. "Start cleaning up and I'll grab the med kit."

He returned in short order with the med kit in one hand and the requisite bottle of whiskey in the other. He handed the bottle to Sam who swallowed a couple of mouthfuls. Dean picked up another towel and started cleaning the nasty gash to remove blood and grime. He showed Sam the bottle of anti-septic before counting down from three and then pouring it on the gash. Sam sucked air through clenched teeth. Dean winced in sympathy and apology. He cleaned it up again and poured another round of anti-septic.

Dean would have preferred to give Sam a couple of good pain killers and knock him out for the next part but he wanted a few hours to make sure his brother was indeed fine. He numbed the area as best he could but they were both far too used to patching and sewing each other up. Didn't make it suck any less. "So, you wanna tell me what happened after I said, 'Sam, don't go back into that house?'" He was rewarded with an annoyed flash of Sam's eyes and what he referred to as Sam's bitchface. Talking about something else would take some of the edge off.

"I couldn't just leave the dog in there Dean," Sam protested.

It was as good a cue as any to begin the first stitch.

Sam winced at the sting then relayed what happened. "Pretty much the same as before. The whole no one is selling the family home. He started throwing things. Dropped the chandelier. I found the dog hiding behind the chair and hauled ass."

"What got in your arm?" Dean asked.

Sam shrugged. "Mirror maybe?" He really did not remember specifics. "I guess he escalated when he realized what we were doing."

"Oh you think, genius?" Dean carefully moved the needle in and out of skin with years of practice of closing up wounds, usually Sam's. Gentle hands were a contrast to his harsh voice which contained enough annoyance to drown the anxiety. The mutt was yapping frantically and Old Man Sanders great-grand daughter started screaming frantically. It seemed perfectly logical to Dean to stay out of the way of the chaos swirling inside of the house, but no, Sam had to run right on in to save the day, or at least the dog. Dean could not get the hat to burn fast enough because of the damn rain. Sam ran out yapping dog in hand. Dean watched as Sam handed off the yapper and then collapsed face first into the enormous puddle of water. It was rather amusing at first. Served him right for running right into the house. Sam slowly pulled himself up but was choking on the nasty rain water he had taken in. Something was wrong. Dean swore profusely and the hat finally burned sending Old Man Sanders straight to hell or wherever.

Dean tied off the thread and snipped it.

"Thanks Dean," Sam said, his voice dull with exhaustion.

He made short work of cleaning and bandaging the head wound as well as bandaging his handiwork. "You good?" He asked Sam as he began putting the kit back together.

"Fine."

"What about that wall?"

Sam shrugged. "As good as ever," he replied.

Dean grunted a non-committal response. "Need help getting cleaned up?"

Sam huffed. "I can handle that on my own Dean."

"I'll get you clean clothes and order dinner."

Dean kept the TV volume low while he waited so he would be able to hear Sam. He had lost blood and a head wound not matter how seemingly minor was nothing to play with. He refused to even consider any damage to the wall that kept the memories of the Cage at bay.

The pizza was delivered and soon after, Sam emerged from the bathroom, steam following. He was now dressed in warm sweat pants, a tee-shirt, and his hair was tucked behind his ears. "Better?"

"Warmer."

They ate and watched mindless TV. Dean continuously slid his eyes to his little brother to make sure there were no ill effects from the injuries and mud bath. Sam stayed pale and shivered slightly. Competently answered questions from idle questions assured him Sam's faculties were working.

Adrenaline wore off, pain pills kicked in, and Sam's eyes fell. He tumbled into his bed and pulled the covers to his chin.

"We'll stay here a few days. Sleep. Laundry," Dean told him. Sam mumbled something utterly incoherent in response. "And next time your older and much wiser brother says Sammy do not go into that house, what will you do?"

Sam extracted an arm and replied with another one finger salute. He then punched the pillow, turned over, and settled deeper into the warmth of the covers.

Dean grunted, content that Sam would be fine. He knew, however, what Sam would do the next time he told him not to run back into the house. At least maybe next time it wouldn't be raining.


End file.
